


Recording Sessions

by beyondcanon



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-12
Updated: 2012-12-13
Packaged: 2017-11-21 00:09:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/591242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beyondcanon/pseuds/beyondcanon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brittany has a little secret: she always googles people before working with them. The next name on her list is Santana Lopez.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I: The Studio

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sipsofmymiind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sipsofmymiind/gifts).



> I can't sing and I don't play the piano, but there's one thing I can do: tell stories. As the 13th day of December begins, I offer this story to Pri-dedicated beta, talented singer, and wonderful person-, to celebrate her birthday. The second and final installment will be published at 23:59 GMT, as the day ends.
> 
> The poster for this fic, available on a larger version on my Tumblr, is credited to the kind Ree, the newest addition to my realm of friends.
> 
> On with the story.

The studio is empty; slivers of light creep in through the gaps and openings. It's quiet – Brittany likes it this way, when she can start the day on her own rhythm. She throws her backpack on a chair and proceeds to open the windows, humming a song.

She looks at the sky, bright and promising.

A black cat sneaks in.

"Good morning, Ella," Brittany says to her, smiling when Ella purrs and wraps herself around Brittany's legs. "How are you today? Having many adventures?"

She takes Ella in her arms and scratches behind her furry ears; her belly trembles and trembles and she closes her cat eyes, delighted. She rubs her face against Brittany's shoulder, meowing softly.

Brittany's phone beeps and disturbs the silence. Brittany puts Ella down, watching her go towards her bowl of water and drink greedily.

It's Brittany's boss, saying she will be late today. Brittany answers, informing her that she's already there getting started, while she proceeds to check the list she left the day before. Send budgets requested; call actors for the Ford piece; edit the TV Guide ad.

“Time to work,” she tells Ella.

Ella appears to nod as she solemnly licks her paws.

* * *

 

Brittany has a little secret: she always googles people before working with them.

She’s not a fan of soap operas and she doesn’t watch that much TV; that means she’s often out of loop of who’s doing what with whom. She likes Disney movies, science fiction movies, and action movies – the only reason she knows the newest teenage heartache is because she has a 15 year old sister who never, ever stops talking.

Artists love to know their work has reached the public, that they are not shouting at nowhere; so Brittany googles.

The next name on her sheet is Santana Lopez.

Santana Lopez might be the most gorgeous woman Brittany has ever seen.

She’s a 25 year old singer, turned actress, turned America’s wet dream. She somehow managed to release her third album, sell millions of copies, get a divorce and be announced as the next Bond girl all in the same month.

“Who does that?” Brittany mouths to the computer in awe.

Santana sang with Adele at the Royal Albert Hall. She’s friends with Adele. There is a picture of her and Adele buying tiny little baby hats.

There is also a picture of Santana and her husband at the time, Puck. He’s got a piercing on his ear and his head is shaved. Brittany doesn’t like him that much. He’s too confident with his hand on Santana’s waist, his arrogant chin up and Ray-Ban sunglasses blocking his eyes.

Brittany ends up at a link for a video of a cover of “Back to Black” – Santana looks a few years younger and her hair is shorter, a little above her shoulders. It’s only her and a vintage microphone stand, the light all on her. She looks to the camera and she stares at the audience; she runs her palms down the stand as if it were a lover.

Her voice is sultry, full of depth and passion. Brittany shivers.

A celebrity gossip blog proudly announces how unbearable Santana can be. Low quality videos of her shoving a photographer away and a picture of her giving the paparazzi, and consequentially the camera, the finger on a beach in Spain seem to be proof enough; another link claims Santana is a horrible, horrible person to work with, according to a few background actors on previous jobs.

She always looks so serious and so dangerous in her pictures. She’s never relaxed, never at ease.

Brittany’s phone rings; it is only when she looks at the screen she realizes she has spent the last 50 minutes stalking the life of a person she has never even met.

Her google adventures aren’t usually this meticulous.

* * *

 

“Hi, I’d like to speak Tina Cohen-Chang. This is Brittany Pierce, on behalf of Glory Sound Studio.”

“Hold, please.”

“Hi, this is Tina Cohen-Chang.”

“Hi, I’m calling to confirm Santana Lopez’s recording session this afternoon.”

“Glory Studio, 2pm?”

“Perfect.”

“She will be there. There are two special requests, I don’t know if you were informed.”

“No, we weren’t, but we’d be happy to accommodate.”

“There must be water for Santana to drink, at room temperature. She can’t have any cold beverages.”

“I can do that.”

“Also, no mentioning of her divorce. Or her ex-husband. Ever.”

“Got it.”

“I don’t think there will be paparazzi, but if you see anything close the windows facing outside, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I think that’s pretty much it.”

“Well, thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Bye!”

* * *

 

Sam goes out to buy a gallon of fresh, room-temperature water. Just in case.

He comes back and he’s all muscle and manliness as he lifts the gallon and puts on the nearest table. “Now, if that’s not healthy enough, I give up,” he says with a toothy grin.

Brittany looks at him from her studio, her door wide open, and shows him her guns. He flexes his amazing biceps before they laugh together.

He walks to her and leans on her doorframe. “Hey, Britt, are you busy?”

Brittany immediately closes her browser; Santana’s photo shoot for Vogue Latina disappears without a trace. “No, what’s up?”

“So,” he says, scratching the back of his head, “I came up with three options of arrangements for the TV Guide ad and I really could use some friendly feedback. Would you mind?”

“Of course not,” Brittany tells him, as they head towards the recording room.

* * *

 

It’s a disaster from the very start.

Brittany places a lock of hair behind her ear and checks her outfit on the nearest computer screen. Headband, hair falling on her shoulders; white pants, black and white suspenders, neon green coat.

Does she look okay? Will Santana immediately hate her?

Then it happens.

Sam goes to the door and he manages to trip on Ella as he opens the door to no one other than Santana Lopez and, as if falling on Santana Lopez wasn’t bad enough, he spills his Coke all over her.

Brittany’s jaw drops and she covers her mouth with her hands.

Santana gives him a look filled with so much fury, she might just explode.

“What. Do you think. You are doing?” She positively growls, pushing him away when he takes a handkerchief out of his pocket and tries to clean her dripping wet clothes.

He apologizes again and again and again, looking like a terrified puppy.

“It’s your fucking fault. You take care of this,” Santana says before she takes off her saturated shirt and throws it at him, the shirt making a splash sound when it reaches his chest.

Then Brittany takes her time and looks at Santana.

Her body, it’s – it’s God’s gift to mankind. Small droplets of Coke go from her collarbone to the valley of her breasts – full, luscious, amazing breasts –, under the front clasp of her bright red bra, over her tanned, toned, tight stomach.

Brittany licks her own lips; she can’t avoid the gasp when two drops join as one and end on Santana’s belly button.

“Where’s the bathroom?” Santana asks, commanding. She finally looks at Brittany, scrutinizing her from head to toe.

Brittany licks her own lips again. “This way,” she says, gesturing with her hand. “I’ll show you.”

Well, Brittany thinks to herself, at least every ounce of hate Santana could possibly have is allotted to Sam.

* * *

 

Brittany knocks on the door softly. “Can I come in?” She asks quietly, trying to calm her own nerves.

“Yes.”

Brittany opens the door; Santana has her hands on the sink, looking at the mirror. She has clearly thrown water on herself to try to clean the sticky syrup from her body as best as possible.

The entire bathroom smells like Santana and Santana is still very wet.

“There was a – I mean, I had a towel.” Brittany shows her yellow towel to Santana. “For gym. For gym later, I mean. I work out at night. It’s not like I used it already. It’s totally not gross. ”

Santana frowns slightly, taking Brittany’s babble in, before she reaches for the towel. “Thank you.”

She runs the towel on her body carefully, in front of Brittany, as though she got half naked in front of strangers every day.

It’s really hard not to stare at her and the tattoo of a cross on her lower back.

Brittany looks at the ground. “I just thought, you know, that it would be better than the small one over there.”

“Perfect thinking,” Santana says with a small grin.

“I have my workout clothes, too,” Brittany says, showing the white tank top in her other hand. “In case you don’t want to put your wet shirt back on.”

Santana nods. “That’d be great,” she says quietly, placing the towel on the sink.

Is this a conversation? Are they having a real conversation? Is Santana being all polite and soft?

Brittany can’t stop talking. “It’s not a gazillion dollar shirt, not fancy and cool like yours, but at least it’s dry, right?”

Santana smiles for real this time. She has dimples, Brittany notices. And such a pretty smile.

“Yeah,” she tells Brittany. “At least it’s dry.”

* * *

 

Santana looks really, really hot in a tank top.

And the skinny jeans she’s wearing.

And her black pumps.

Brittany licks her lips.

She looks even hotter when she’s being so fierce, looking at Sam and terrifying the daylights out of the boy.

He’s apologizing, again, and offering to go right away to get it cleaned and give it back to her, and please don’t be mad, Santana, can I do anything for you?

“Oh no,” Santana answers, “you have done enough already by ruining 600 dollars worth of clothing.”

Brittany clears her throat, directing Santana’s attention back to her. “The studio is ready for you,” she says, gesturing for Santana to come her way.

Sam looks at Brittany like it’s Christmas and mouths a thank you behind Santana’s back.

“I heard that,” Santana informs him over her shoulder, as she passes Brittany.

His eyes widen.

“Sam,” Brittany asks him, “why don’t you go outside and do that thing that needs to be done outside?”

He picks up on the hint immediately. “Heading out now,” he says, grabbing his coat, “be back soon, or later, or tomorrow, who knows,” and out the door he goes.

Now it’s just her and Santana.

* * *

 

Santana stops, still standing near the door, and turns to Brittany. “I’m sorry.”

Brittany frowns in confusion. “For what?”

“I didn’t get your name,” Santana says. “I have your shirt, but I don’t have your name.”

Oh, God. Santana Lopez wants to know Brittany’s name. Santana Lopez has apologized.

Brittany clears her throat. “Brittany. Brittany Pierce.”

She’s even more gorgeous from up close, her pumps and Brittany’s All Stars compensating for the height difference and allowing her to look into Brittany’s eyes and bat her long eyelashes.

“Nice to meet you, Brittany Pierce,” she says in the most absurdly charming way Brittany could possibly imagine.

Brittany has never wished so hard for someone to be gay – or for her to have the ability to turn someone gay with the sheer force of her mind.

* * *

 

It happens too fast for Brittany’s liking. They go over the lines, Santana sings a bit, talks a bit, and it’s done.

Stupid radio commercials are too short.

Now Santana is going to leave and they’ll never see each other again and when she does something amazing – like being a Bond girl, or get a million Grammys for her newest album, or be nominated Queen of the Universe – Brittany will have a silly story of how she met Santana Lopez once and she borrowed her shirt.

“I’ll be in touch,” Santana tells her, grabbing her purse. “To give back your shirt.”

“Don’t worry,” Brittany tells her, gesturing as though it’s no big deal, “it’s not like it was expensive or anything and I have more clothes, and you’re busy with your album and interviews and singing and acting,” she rambles on.

“Not too busy,” Santana answers, giving Brittany a look that makes her warm from head to toe. “See you.”

* * *

 

“Oh, fuck me sideways on a public bench,” Brittany hears through the door.

She smiles.

Santana enters the studio again, sighing tiredly as she closes the door behind her.

“You know, you didn’t have to return the shirt,” Brittany can’t help herself, “right away.”

Santana tries to shoot her a glare, but it’s not really effective.

“It’s just that – paparazzi,” she sighs, leaning against the door, “can be really tiring. The divorce, it’s – a little too public.”

Brittany can’t think of anything smart or funny to say; it’s actually quite overwhelming to see Santana so sincere.

“You become famous,” Santana continues, very serious and worn out, “and your life doesn’t belong to you anymore.”

Ella meows in understanding, getting close to Santana and smelling her feet.

“You can stay as long as you want,” Brittany tells Santana, taking a few steps closer. “Or we can send Ella to scare them away. If we throw some tuna on them, she will go wild.”

Santana looks at Brittany, amused, and she smiles – for the second time! Not that anyone is counting.

She sits down on the floor, and lets Ella get closer, sniffing her hands and curiously pawing her thigh.

Brittany sits down on the floor – she’s not going to sit on a chair when Santana Lopez herself sits on the floor, is she – with her back against the desk.

“She’s a curious little thing,” she tells Santana. “I always tell her curiosity killed the cat, but she never listens.”

Santana scratches under Ella’s ear; it’s her favorite spot and she closes her cat eyes in appreciation, immediately seduced by the gesture.

It takes no time for Ella to be on Santana’s lap, rolled like a cheese, purring magnificently.

“You discovered her weak spot.” Brittany says. “Nice move.”

Santana smiles a bit; they fall into comfortable silence.

“You can go back to work, if you need to,” Santana says, not looking at Brittany. “I’ll just stay here. Maybe they will go away, or maybe I’ll just have to suck it up and face them.”

“I want to be here with you,” Brittany says, trying not to blush too much. “You don’t have to be alone.”

“Thank you.”

Ella meows, demanding, and Santana goes back to scratching her ears.

* * *

 

It turns out Santana is really easy to talk to, and she gets Brittany’s jokes.

* * *

 

Brittany comes back with two cups of Starbucks coffee in to-go cups.

“I don’t think they’re out there anymore,” she tells Santana as she closes the door. “And I don’t think the girl playing with a soccer ball is dangerous. She’s really small.”

Santana takes her cup and sips it, making a satisfied sound. “I haven’t had coffee in months.”

Brittany sits on the floor and asks why.

“I was having a bit of a health issue,” Santana explains, taking another sip, “so I had to be really careful with what I drank. My voice is my job.”

They fall silent for a moment.

“Don’t tell Tina you gave me coffee, by the way,” Santana says. She winks at Brittany. “It’ll be our little secret.”

Brittany blushes furiously. “I won’t,” she manages to spit out without stuttering.

Was Santana flirting with her? Had her Gay Fairy Godmother heard her prayers? Was she imagining things? What was going on with the world?

Had she turned Santana gay with the sheer force of her mind?

Santana finishes her coffee and gets up, offering her hand to Brittany. Brittany takes it for balance as she stands up.

Santana’s hands are as soft and perfect as Brittany could have imagined; they’re smaller than Brittany’s but fit perfectly – they linger a second too long.

“I really should go,” she says, letting go of Brittany, “or I’ll be late.”

“See you, I hope,” Brittany blurts by accident.

“See you,” Santana agrees.

* * *

 

“So, how was it?” Sam peaks into Brittany’s studio. “Is she completely mad and will sue four generations of my family for compensation?”

Brittany looks at him. “No, it was okay. She was nice.”

He shakes his head. “Santana Lopez doesn’t do nice. I heard she has razor blades in her hair.”

Brittany smiles and rolls her eyes. “Go away,” she tells him, “before I call her to come back and kick your ass.”

He gives her a silly grin and leaves.

* * *

 

She googles Santana Lopez gay, but the results are not decisive.

* * *

 

When her boss tells her the client has requested a few changes and asks her to call Santana again, Brittany can’t hide the big smile that creeps onto her face.

It’s too good to be true.

She calls Tina, who tells her Santana can be there at 7pm.

“That totally works,” Brittany answers, while texting Sam to make sure he won’t be around, to prevent any further incidents.

He answers that he will disappear better than Mandrake.

The worst thing is that Brittany has been his friend for so long she knows who Mandrake is.

* * *

 

She’s doodling something on a piece of paper, trying to pass time. She tries not to think about if her hair looks okay, because Santana is not gay and has just gotten a heterosexual divorce, from a heterosexual man.

She jumps a little when Santana arrives, getting up to greet her.

“Thank you for coming on such short notice,” she says politely.

Santana nods and drops her purse on a desk nearby. “Thank you for not spilling some random shit on me, ruining my outfit, and having me undress in front of strangers.”

“We’re not total strangers,” Brittany answers, biting her lower lip. “I totally bought you coffee. It means something, right?”

It’s really, really, really hard not to stare at Santana’s voluptuous cleavage.

“Every gossip magazine would say we’re dating,” Santana says, grinning and winking at Brittany – for the second time. Not that anyone is counting.

Not that it means anything.

Brittany’s heart is racing. “You deserve better than an assistant producer.”

“You shouldn’t put yourself down,” Santana answers. “It’s not like we wouldn’t be hot together.”

Brittany chokes on her own saliva and coughs so hard she can’t breathe.

* * *

 

She can’t look at Santana.

Santana Lopez, chosen the Hottest Woman of 2011 by FHM and the Most Beautiful Woman of 2012 by People magazine, said they would be hot together.

She had thought about them together, even if for only a second.

They would. Be. So hot. Together.

Brittany Pierce and Santana Lopez. Hot.

Together.

And Brittany had managed to make a fool of herself, and cough, and not be sexy at all.

She skillfully manages to do her job without looking at Santana, not even once.

* * *

 

Santana sighs. “I’m sorry.”

Brittany blinks, caught up in her distraction. “Excuse me?”

“You’re clearly uncomfortable,” Santana says, running a hand through her hair, “and it’s my fault. I insinuated things and I wasn’t professional at all. You’re clearly not into girls, or my jokes, and I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“It’s not—“ she tries to say, but Santana keeps talking.

“I’ll just go, now that we’re done,” she says, standing up, “I’m sorry.”

Oh God, Santana Lopez thinks she ruined things and she’s going to leave and Brittany will never see her again –

Brittany interrupts Santana, holding her wrist and standing up as well. “I’m very much into girls,” she says and blushes like there’s no tomorrow, “and boys. I’m bilingual.”

“Bisexual, you mean?”

“That too.” She bites her lip, still holding Santana Lopez’s wrist like it’s no big deal. “You just broke my brain a little when you said we would be hot together.”

A grin starts to form. “Did I?”

Brittany nods.

Ella looks at them from the door and meows with approval.

“She likes you,” Brittany says, taking a step closer.

Santana takes another step closer. “Just don’t tell the press anyone likes me, or you’ll break their brains.”

“You have a reputation,” Brittany says, leaning in.

“I have a reputation,” Santana answers, her body meeting Brittany’s.

A car honks.

Santana sighs. “I also have to go,” she breathes out, their faces close but not enough, “I can’t be late this time.”

Brittany sighs in frustration; they were so close. “You still owe me a shirt.”

Santana smiles. “I’ll have to see you again, then.”

* * *

 

“No way,” Sam says, his mouth half full with his sandwich.

Brittany smiles. “Way.”

“So Santana Lopez says you’d be hot together. And then she apologizes, you tell her she broke your brain,” he goes over the story making exaggerated gestures, “you two press against each other like lesbian lovers and your face is in her face but you don’t kiss because she has to go?” He takes another bite. “That’s Catwoman levels of sneaky… And hot.”

Brittany nods and sips her milkshake. “She still has my shirt, so we’ll have to see each other again.”

“What are you going to do when you see her again?”

That’s a very good question. “Try not to blush to death, maybe? I don’t know,” she says, “I guess I’ll just go with the flow.”

* * *

 

She tries Santana Lopez lesbian affair, but her findings are not conclusive.

* * *

 

It takes two days, and it’s raining like it’s the end of the world.

The windows shake a bit with the strength of the wind, rattling every once in a while. Ella has her face on Brittany’s stomach, not pleased at all with the horrible weather. Brittany holds her, running her palm on her soft black fur, and listens to some music.

It’s a slow day.

Their boss had sent them a message saying she would work from home, so she wouldn’t have to risk going out on the streets in such horrendous weather.

Sam is taking a break after composing for hours; he has his feet on his desk as he reads his comic, Batman: The Killing Joke Special Edition.

Santana enters without knocking and looks at him. His eyes widen in fear.

He puts his comic under his arm, gets up and says loud enough so Brittany can hear him, “I’m going to take a walk to refresh my ideas,” and he disappears into the pouring rain.

The door closes after him with a thud – Santana looks at Brittany, Brittany looks at Santana – and they both laugh at Sam’s immediate panicked reaction.

* * *

 

“Sam is silly,” Brittany says, gesturing for Santana to enter her studio.

Santana is gorgeous. She’s wet – of course she’s wet, the sky is falling out there and she still came to see Brittany, to give back that stupid excuse of a shirt – and she takes off her leather jacket. Drops of rainwater run along her collarbone, and she pulls up her own shirt to dry her face, exposing her stomach.

Brittany stops petting Ella because staring at Santana’s perfect abdomen takes up too much of her attention.

She barely manages to look away in time. She gets up and gestures for Santana to sit on her executive leather chair, taking a simpler, less comfortable one for herself.

“He’s right,” Santana says, accepting the offer and sitting facing the window. “He better be afraid.”

“Stop being so mean,” Brittany tells her, going back to petting Ella after the cat complains and rubs her head against Brittany’s arm.

“But it’s so much fun,” Santana answers, winking at Brittany – oh, there it is, Brittany’s cheeks warm and redden and Brittany looks away. “Do you mind –” Santana hesitates for a moment, “if I stay here a little, just until the weather gets better?”

“Of course not,” Brittany answers. “I like you.”

Santana smiles softly at her, and they both fall silent staring at the rain.

Santana reaches out to Ella, scratching under her cat ears, as Brittany pets her back. Ella looks like she’s in cat heaven – Brittany bites her lip when she thinks of how close their hands are, if she wanted to touch Santana…

* * *

 

She has to ask. Curiosity is eating her alive. “Are you really friends with Adele?”

Santana gives her a funny look. “Yeah, she’s an amazing person,” she answers, the side of her hand touching Brittany’s for a second. “Why?”

“I don’t know”, Brittany admits. “I just saw pictures of the two of you doing baby shopping and then of you two singing together with an orchestra.”

“That was a good show,” Santana says. “One of the best nights of my life.” Her hand touching Brittany’s has to be intentional, because it’s been going on for so long –

“I wonder if her baby will have that much hair. It would totally break her baby neck,” Brittany says, and Santana laughs.

“Yeah, it would,” Santana says before she sneaks her hand under Brittany’s, still running the tip of her fingers on Ella’s belly.

Brittany intertwines their fingers, wondering if she’s having a heart attack from the sheer adrenaline.

* * *

 

Santana doesn’t let go of Brittany’s hand. She shifts closer, in silence.

Neither of them say anything for a long time, until—

Santana frowns slightly, still staring at the window. “You haven’t asked me about my divorce.”

Oh.  Brittany clears her throat, “Tina told me not to,” she says, running her thumb on Santana’s hand.

“I thought you’d eventually ask,” Santana says, thoughtful, “or you’d tell me how big of a mistake I made. It’s generally what people want me to know.”

Brittany looks at Santana. “Why?”

“You know, we’ve been friends since high school, he was my producer, and we were so good together,” Santana lists emotionlessly, “that kind of thing. No one ever asks about how I felt when he would cheat.”

“You don’t look that good together,” Brittany answers, tightening her hold on Santana’s hand. “He thinks he’s the last bottle of Diet Coke in the Hunger Games.”

Santana looks at her in the fraction of a second – and she laughs a full belly laugh, her body shaking, her beautiful voice filling the room. Brittany smiles brightly before laughing as well.

“That is the best description anyone has ever made,” Santana tells her, “in the history of words.”

Brittany gives her a smug smile. “I’m pretty cool.”

* * *

 

The sun peaks out – they are running out of time.

Ella grows tired of the attention and runs off to return to her cat business; it’s just the two of them now.

Santana bites her lip and looks at her phone. “I think I should get going,” she says slowly, not really looking at Brittany, “I’ve already taken up enough of your time.”

Brittany just stares, unsure of what to do.

Santana gets up and takes Brittany’s neatly folded shirt from her purse. She places it on Brittany’s desk. “Thank you for the shirt. It was really nice of you.”

Time’s running out – Santana’s going to leave and she’ll have no excuse to come back if Brittany doesn’t move from her seat—

She awakes from her daze. “Wait,” she says, grabbing Santana’s arm, “let me just—“ she pulls Santana; Santana falls flat onto her lap, “do something first.”

Santana seems to be expecting it, because her eyes fall to Brittany’s mouth and she parts her lips a bit, taking a sharp breath.

Brittany doesn’t give her time to answer; she puts a hand on Santana’s neck, her fingers on the back of her neck and her thumb on her jaw, and she pulls Santana in for a kiss.

It’s even better than she expected.

Santana settles fully against her, her weight pressing down on Brittany, and they are touching everywhere. Her lips are soft and gentle, reciprocating the kiss carefully, tentatively, until she tilts her head, grabs Brittany’s shirt, and lets Brittany deepen the kiss—

Oh God, had she just moaned in Brittany's mouth?

Her breath is sweet as it mingles with Brittany’s, and her tongue massaging Brittany’s is slick and wet and perfect; Brittany wraps her free arm around her, pulling her closer.

“I really shouldn’t,” Santana breathes out, but it’s her who’s leaning for the second kiss hungrily, coaxing Brittany’s tongue inside her mouth and sucking on it, “I just got a divorce, you kn—“

“I don’t mind,” Brittany interrupts, because this might be the most glorious kiss she has ever had and she’s not giving up on it. She uses her hand on Santana’s neck to pull her in again, lips sliding together. Santana’s hands are on her collarbone, palming her cleavage, trying to get to as much skin as possible.

Santana takes over the kiss, exploring Brittany’s mouth relentlessly, rubbing her tongue against Brittany’s, until she pulls back and changes positions – and in the smartest move in American history, she straddles Brittany, their bodies touching flush, front to front, breasts against each other – before pulling Brittany’s hair and kissing her again, arching into Brittany with clear intention and desire.

It’s glorious ten times over. It’s Brittany who moans into Santana’s mouth this time as she runs her hands down Santana’s back, palming the muscles, feeling her respond to her touch. “I’d be in so much trouble,” Santana says, proceeding to nudge Brittany’s jaw line, marking each word with a small bite, “if this got out.”

Santana presses her hips down, and Brittany moans, feeling herself throbbing already. “So much trouble,” Santana repeats, sucking on the same spot, hard and long, and Brittany has to hold back, attempting to not buck her hips into Santana. “So out of hand,” Santana says and bites, her hand sneaking under Brittany’s shirt over her breast.

Brittany grabs Santana’s ass. “Like anyone would believe,” she answers, hissing when Santana runs her teeth over the same spot, “that you would even look at me.”

“Like I could take my eyes off you,” Santana’s lips graze Brittany’s ear. “Like I wasn’t turned on just by how you were looking at me.”

Brittany whimpers.

The front door opens. “Britt, I’m back,” Sam’s voice enters Brittany’s studio.

Santana swears against Brittany’s neck before she gets up. Brittany closes her eyes and tries very hard not to curse Sam until his fourth generation.

“I’m soaked, but I don’t think I’ve got pneumonia yet,” he says, distracted, entering his own studio.

Santana runs a hand through her hair, trying to catch her breath.

Her lips are swollen and she looks like a goddess.

Brittany has enough bravery in her to give Santana her card. “Call me.”

Santana looks at her like she’s about to kiss her senseless – again.

“Britt, are you—“ Sam stops at her door, petrified, when he spots Santana.

“You stay. I’m leaving.” Santana tells him with a cold stare, grabbing her purse. She turns to Brittany and whispers on her ear a see you very soon.

Brittany gets the shivers all over.

* * *

 

The door has barely shut close when Sam breaks the silence. “You totally had a lesbian make out session with the Hottest Woman of 2012. You should put that on a shirt.”

“Well, you should put on yours I wet my pants in fear.”

“I did not!” He looks slightly offended. “I’m just trying to take care of my well-being, okay?”

* * *

 

“Hi, I’d like to speak with Brittany Pierce.”

“This is she.”

“It’s Tina Cohen-Chang.”

“Hey! Is everything okay?”

“Yes, don’t worry. Santana asked me to personally call you with a proposition.”

“What proposition?”

“Santana said she was very impressed by your work and would like you to take the assistant producer spot that just opened up in her team. It would be for the official soundtrack of the next _Batman_ movie. Schedules are flexible and I can e-mail you further details and our proposal, if you’re interested. The only thing is that you’d have to answer as soon as possible – we’re a bit short on time and this weekend the entire crew is gathering at her place. It would be really great if we had an answer before that. Are you still there?”

“Yes. And yes. Yes. Send me the details. I’m in.”              


	2. Part II: The Mansion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right on time, as promised. I hope this was to readers as enjoyable as it was to me. Thank you for the reviews.

Brittany stops the car in front of the gates and peeks out, her sunglasses sliding down her nose as she admires the magnificent path in front of her. She finds the intercom and enters the code Tina had told her; the gates open slowly.

She has to make an effort to keep the engine running. Her faded green 1982 Ford Impala whines as she enters the Lopez property.

That isn’t a house, it’s a mansion.

Tall and beautiful, the building has three floors and huge glass windows giving it a modern look. The garden around it seems amazing with its green, soft grass; healthy, colorful plants; and tall, old trees perfect to sit under on a sunny day.

Brittany parks her ancient car next to a new, bright and shiny, red BMW M6 Coupe. She tries not to feel too self-conscious about the fact her car was bought by her father when he was still in college and had a full mane of blonde hair on his head.

She knocks and enters, looking around.

There’s a lot of empty space, some paintings on the floor, against the wall, and some essential furniture that doesn’t really match – it doesn’t really feel like Santana’s. It feels like a place between owners, lacking an identity.

It’s a weird feeling to be standing in the foyer, her backpack and her guitar on her shoulder, waiting. She calls Santana name, trying not to feel silly.

Santana finally appears, down the stairs, in green pajama pants and a grey tank top, yawning. “You’re early.”

Leave it to Brittany to mess things up right from the start. She blushes.

“Tina told me to be here early to catch up.”

“It’s okay,” Santana says, her voice husky from sleep, and gestures for Brittany to come over, “but you’ll have to watch me have breakfast. Or eat with me.”

Brittany really doesn’t mind. She places her things on the floor and follows.

* * *

 

They go through a room that has nothing but white walls.

“This was supposed to be the living room,” she gestures around her, “but all I’ve managed so far is to get rid of all my ex-husband’s ridiculous things.”

Brittany tries to imagine Santana married, but she can’t.

* * *

 

The kitchen is clean and spacious, with every appliance known to mankind. The windows are big – Brittany can see the sky and the sun and the beautiful garden around them.

The fridge has two doors, and when Santana opens it Brittany can see it’s stuffed with fruits, juices, vegetables and various other delicious looking foods.

Santana cuts some strawberries and bananas. “Do you want something?”

Brittany is both embarrassed and intimidated, so she just shakes her head.

Santana serves herself a bowl of granola, fruits and yogurt and sits on one of the stools. “You don’t have to stand there, you know. You can sit.”

Brittany sits by her side in silence.

Santana looks at her and begins to eat. “You’re being weird,” she says.

“Am not,” Brittany answers.

“Are,” Santana says. “I bet it’s this stupid house.”

“It’s a nice house.”

“It’s not even mine. It’s my ex-husband’s, Puck,” Santana answers with a sigh. “He was the one who bought it and reformed it so it had everything he wanted.”

That explained a lot. Brittany thinks for a moment before saying, “I think he needed a big place for his ego or something.”

Santana laughs again – it’s beautiful. “Yeah. Something like that.”

She looks at Brittany sweetly, and Brittany wants to kiss her.

* * *

 

“Don’t be silly,” Santana says, placing a bowl in front of Brittany. “I feel bad with you staring at me.”

Brittany takes the yogurt and the fruits. “Thanks,” she says, blushing without a reason.

Santana yawns and goes back to the fridge. “Do you want a sandwich, too? There are some sandwich-y things in here somewhere.”

“You don’t really need to—“

“Peanut butter and jelly is a classic. You can’t say no to that,” Santana says, ignoring Brittany.

She makes Brittany a sandwich.

_She_ makes _Brittany_ a sandwich.

A _sandwich_.

“Aren’t you supposed to have people to make sandwiches for you?”

“I can make my own sandwiches and drive my own car,” Santana answers, rolling her eyes with a smile. She gives Brittany the sandwich. “I don’t like having an army of people working for me,” she says, turning around and placing her empty bowl in the sink before turning back and looking at Brittany dead in the eye, “I’m not Paris Hilton.”

Brittany chokes on her sandwich.

* * *

 

The next room has a fluffy grey rug, and leather chairs and sofas, and dark wood furniture. It follows the house’s pattern of all glass and openness. It faces the pool and the barbecue area; Brittany likes it. It’s the first section of the house she’s been in that feels like Santana.

Brittany tells her that.

“When he left, the house still felt just like him,” Santana explains, “He built it to have everything he liked.”

Brittany nods, listening.

“I wanted to have something that felt like my own, and I always loved how this room faced the pool and the garden.”

“Why are you still here?” Brittany can’t help but ask; maybe this moment of sincerity would soon be over and so she wants to learn as much about Santana as possible. “Why not leave the house to him?”

Santana looks at her and thinks. “I didn’t want to be the one who left, and my divorce lawyer is the best one, this side of the coast.”

Brittany nods and they both fall silent.

“I like your photo,” she says, pointing at the framed picture on the wall of Adele and Santana at their show. They’re dressed in black, elegant and impressive, and their eyes are closed as they sing. Santana looks completely taken away by the song.

“We were singing a mash-up of Someone Like You and one of my songs, backed up by a full orchestra,” Santana explains, her eyes on the picture as well. “It was a powerful thing.”

* * *

 

Santana sits by Brittany’s side on the leather couch, bodies brushing against each other. It’s quite amazing how her expression and her posture change when she’s in business mode: she sits straighter, modulates her voice, and arches her eyebrows.

She shows Brittany the music sheets and explains they’re somewhere in the recording process, but she’s not satisfied with the transition to a new harmony in the chorus and how the third verse could be better.

They stop to listen to the recordings, first only Santana’s voice and then with a guitar and a piano, discussing possible arrangements.

She touches Brittany’s thigh to make a particular point like it’s no big deal, leaning into Brittany to show something in the lyrics. Her hair brushes against Brittany’s shoulder. Brittany’s mouth feels dry – if she wanted, if she turned her head a bit, she could kiss Santana’s skin.

Santana breaks the spell and stands up, saying she’ll take a shower and change.

* * *

 

Brittany is frowning, focused on her thoughts, when Santana clears her throat and gets her attention.

Santana’s wearing a black and white long sleeved dress which is the perfect amount of tight and short. Brittany’s heart races just to look at her.

Santana sits by her side. “I have a confession to make.”

Brittany turns to face her, holding back her smile. “You hired me for my body.”

Santana laughs, her hand falling on Brittany’s thigh. “That too,” she says, squeezing a bit, “and because I wanted to spend more time with you, if you don’t mind.”

Brittany blushes. “I don’t,” she says, biting her lower lip. Santana smiles at her red cheeks and shifts closer.

Brittany turns her head and Santana leans in; their lips meet slowly. Santana’s hand rests on Brittany’s thigh, and Brittany cups Santana’s face and sighs as Santana kisses her again and again and again.

* * *

 

Brittany gives Santana one last wet peck on the lips. “You still haven’t told me your big confession,” she says.

Santana has one arm around Brittany’s waist and one hand on Brittany’s thigh; they’re so close to each other it’s perfect. She blinks a few times, as if trying to remember. “Yeah, there’s that.”

“Not that I’m complaining,” Brittany says, throwing her legs over Santana’s and diving her hand into Santana’s hair, “you’re a very good kisser.”

Santana smiles and leans for another kiss, pulling Brittany closer; Brittany parts her lips and lets Santana explore her mouth, wet and slow. She tastes like toothpaste and she hums into the kiss. Brittany smiles, arching into Santana.

* * *

 

Her lips feel sore; Santana’s lips are equally swollen.

It somehow makes them seem even more kissable.

She’s comfortable on Santana’s lap, running a finger on the hickey she had made. Santana hisses. “Sorry about that,” Brittany says, wrapping her arms around Santana’s neck.

“Nothing some makeup can’t hide,” Santana answers, running her hand on Brittany’s waist. “We do have to go back to work, though. The band is going to arrive in a bit and we’ve spent the last,” she checks her phone, “thirty minutes kissing.”

“Awesome thirty minutes,” Brittany answers, kissing Santana’s jaw.

“Yeah,” Santana sighs, settling more fully on the couch and pulling Brittany with her.

“You know I’d have kissed you for free, right?” Brittany kisses the spot beneath Santana’s ear, feeling her tighten her grasp on Brittany’s waist in response. “You didn’t have to make up this assistant producer thing,” she runs the tip of her tongue on the same spot.

“I did have an opening. Puck did me the favor of sleeping with the previous assistant, so I had to fire her.”

Brittany stops and looks at Santana.

“Way to ruin the mood,” Santana says with a sigh. “I’m sorry.”

Brittany looks at her, examining her features and running her index finger over the lines of Santana’s face.

“Look on the bright side,” Brittany tells her because really, she is not fooling anyone, “Now you’re the one who gets to sleep with the assistant.”

She swears she can feel Santana’s cheeks growing warmer and warmer.

* * *

 

“There’s something I need to confess,” Santana tells her when Brittany snuggles into her and places her head on Santana’s shoulder, “you’re the assistant producer but I still don’t have a producer.”

Brittany frowns a bit, trying to understand. “I don’t get it.”

“Puck was my producer until he turned into my ex-husband,” Santana explains, kissing Brittany’s frown, “and I’ve been going through people for months without finding anyone who really gets my sound.”

Brittany decides not to mention she has heard Santana’s entire discography eight times that week and she also kind of listened to the artists Santana said were her biggest influence, and she spent her Wednesday night reading all about the blues rock influence on Santana’s work.

“My last one blew me off for Paul McCartney. I don’t even blame him. It _is_ McCartney,” Santana continues, her fingertips running along Brittany’s arm and sending shivers all over, “But that means you’re kind of the only producer,” Santana says, “for now.”

Brittany’s eyes widen; this could be the opportunity of a lifetime. She sits up on Santana’s lap and looks at her.

“Are you sure of what you are doing?”

“I’m running out of time.  It’s just for the weekend,” Santana says, looking into Brittany’s eyes. “I’ll find someone; you don’t need to be nervous. And if this doesn’t work out, it doesn’t work out. At least we’ll have had some fun.”

Oh, this will work out. This will work out so much Santana will be on her knees begging for her to stay when it’s over.

Not that she’s thinking about Santana on her knees. Naked.

She’s really not.

* * *

 

Brittany starts writing down the lyrics because it helps her think.

The third verse is too short and the chorus needs something else, she just knows it. She had told Santana this earlier, but what exactly was missing? She bites the tip of her pen and taps her foot on the ground.

“Eureka!” She finally says with a big grin, and starts drawing arrows and repositioning things. Santana looks at her, curious, leaning into her. “I’m totally awesome,” Brittany concludes, re-writing the lyrics as she sees fit.

“You totally are,” Santana agrees, amused, before she even sees what Brittany is doing. She plays with the small hairs on the back of Brittany’s neck, and if that isn’t the most delicious, pleasurable thing in the history of cuddling, Brittany doesn’t know anything about life.

She finally shows Santana. Santana takes the sheet and settles on the couch, her legs under her, and she makes a little frown that apparently indicates she’s deep in thought.

“The metric is definitely much better with this,” Santana mutters after a while, “and so is the rhythm.”

Brittany smiles broad and happy.

“Very nice,” Santana nods in approval, smiling when she sees Brittany’s smile.

“I think I should totally get an appreciation kiss for that,” Brittany says, biting her lip. “Just saying.”

“If you insist,” Santana says, kneeling on the couch and placing her hand on the back of Brittany’s neck for a kiss.

Brittany wraps her arms around Santana and pulls her closer until they’re lying on the couch, because she is no fool. Santana hums to it, settling on top of Brittany and kissing Brittany’s lower lip softly.

When she runs her teeth on Brittany’s inner lip, Brittany lets out a small sound and cups Santana’s face to deepen the kiss. Santana lets her, parting her lips and allowing Brittany’s tongue access. Brittany rubs her tongue against Santana’s, in long, slow circles, until neither of them can breathe.

“This is the best work schedule in the world,” she says, looking at Santana, and gets another of those free, crystal clear laughs from her.

Santana wets her own lips –and there’s _that_ look again, the one that makes Brittany feel warm all over.

The bell rings.

* * *

 

There’s Rory the sound engineer, Matt the guitarist, Joe the bassist, Blaine the keyboardist, and Mike the percussionist. They’re introduced in the foyer, and Brittany tries really hard to remember everyone’s names.

Santana takes everyone straight to the studio – Brittany holds her breath because she’s been anxious to see it.

“This is what you get with the best divorce lawyer money can pay,” Santana whispers in her ear when they go down the stairs, “This Sugar Motta chick is crazy, but she knows her shit.”

Santana turns on the lights and Brittany’s jaw drops.

This is a real, gigantic recording studio that probably takes the whole basement. Brittany looks around the home studio: there is a control room in front of a studio with everyone’s instruments already set up, an isolation room by the right, a sitting room all in red leather and Santana’s platinum CDs by the left, a small kitchen and store room by the back along with a huge equipment room with every instrument a rock star could dream of having. Brittany’s afraid to touch them, because they are all so fine and expensive that if she ruins any of those she will spend the rest of her life paying back the damages.

Everyone’s in the main studio, looking over the sheets and warming up, as Santana shows Brittany around.

“He spent a fortune on this,” Santana says with a smirk, leaning against the corridor wall. “It took him almost a year, before I even moved here.”

“Now it’s yours,” Brittany says, pressing her body against Santana’s.

Santana smiles.

* * *

 

They make those cute faces when they’re focused, playing together.

Brittany watches from the control room, trying not to stare too hard at Santana and the way she holds the microphone.

Everything still feels very surreal. She texts Sam: _at Santana’s home studio. I might be dreaming!_

Sam answers she can now write Santana’s unauthorized biography and make millions.

She snorts a little and throws her phone back in her purse.

* * *

 

Sometimes she needs to see things to understand them.

When they take their first break she takes Santana by the arm.

“The thing is,” she begins to say, walking them to the piano, “your first harmony is a little flat, and I think that’s why you’re having problems transitioning. Maybe we should take it up a little,” she explains, trying not to think how she doesn’t speak this much and will probably mess up her words sooner or later.

She sits in front of the piano. “Don’t judge, okay? My sister is the _virtuoso_ in the family, not me.”

Blaine looks at her from the door and gets even more nervous.

“This is what we’re doing,” Brittany says as she starts to play the first notes, “but maybe we could try something else,” she says, her fingers on the keys taking over the conversation for a few seconds, “and maybe even surprise everyone a bit with an _appoggiatura_ ,” and there she goes, adding a note to clash with the previous melody, “to create some tension.”

Santana lets her play the whole song – Brittany’s probably ruining it a little bit because even though her mother tried, it just wasn’t meant to be, her and the piano – before Blaine clears his throat behind her.

“It’s not that bad,” he says, taking over and reproducing Brittany’s suggestion.

Brittany grabs the guitar. “The guitar would have to follow, of course. I’m not sure how, but it could be,” she nods to Blaine, “something like this,” and they start playing together. They have to start over twice, but they begin to get the grasp of it and Blaine smiles handsomely.

Joe comes in and takes his bass. “Don’t have all the fun without me,” he says, with his sandals and his weird hair, and he’s impressively quick to follow them.

Santana gestures to Mike; Matt takes an extra guitar and it all becomes a great jam session within minutes.

* * *

 

At first, Santana only watches and listens and thinks.

But then she grabs the microphone and she takes her voice higher with the new lyrics.

She looks at Brittany the whole time, smiling.

* * *

 

Brittany keeps playing the guitar throughout the rest of the rehearsal, until everyone is hungry and they have ten demo versions. It’s nice to be back in a band again, playing with other people, and not just composing alone in her room.

“Pizza,” Mike speaks for the first time that day, sweating like a ceremonial pig on a roaster.

It’s a unanimous decision.

“Pepperoni!” Brittany says, and everyone agrees.

* * *

 

They go to the pool with the pizzas and the Coke and the beers.

“To a great day,” Santana raises her glass, and they toast together, “with great people.”

Blaine turns to Brittany when she moans at her slice.

“It’s delicious and I’m starving, don’t judge!” she says with her mouth half full, and this time it’s the whole band laughing at her.

She keeps on moaning at her delicious pizza because she really can’t help it. It’s delicious and she always moans at delicious, tasty food.

* * *

 

Everyone takes their time lying down and stretching under the sun for a while.

It’s sunny and quiet; the wind blows and the tree leaves make a soft, low rustling sound.

Matt is shirtless by the pool, sleeping under the sun like a king; Joe prays and meditates by the grass in lotus position; Blaine talks quietly on the phone with his boyfriend, sitting under a tree; Mike takes off his shirt and his pants and swims; Rory just looks Irish in a corner and listens to some music on his iPod.

Brittany sits by Santana’s side, unsure of how to behave in front of others.

Santana seems to understand. “It’s okay,” she tells Brittany, reaching for her hand, “they won’t tell anyone.”

* * *

 

_Are you guys married already? Has she hired you as her personal smooch giver?_

Brittany smiles at Sam’s text and answers, _don’t you have anything better to do?_

_Not really._

_Not married, but kissed. We’re by the pool eating pizza with the band._

The answer takes two minutes. _Life’s so not fair._

* * *

 

Santana lends Mike a towel when he leaves the pool and the band gets their things.

“Have a fun weekend,” Santana tells them as they leave, chatting excitedly with each other. She begins to grab the glasses and plates and take them to the kitchen. Brittany follows, placing the dishes in the sink.

When Santana leaves with a bag to get the trash, Brittany begins to wash the dishes.

She can’t avoid thinking she’s doing Santana Lopez’s dishes like it’s no big deal.

“Brittany, you didn’t have to,” Santana says when she returns and sees Brittany. She places her hands on Brittany’s waist and kisses her shoulder. “It’s your first time here; you shouldn’t be doing housework.”

“It’s okay,” Brittany tells her, setting the last plate aside. “I don’t mind.”

“Still,” Santana insists.

Brittany dries her hands and turns around, facing Santana. The sun is setting and it’s a beautiful Saturday, but Brittany thinks she has overstayed and Santana probably wants to be alone.

“Thank you for today,” she says.

“Thank _you_ ,” Santana answers, pulling Brittany against her, “for everything. I had an amazing time.”

It’s really hard to say goodbye when Santana’s pressed against her.

“I’m glad we met,” Santana says after a while, looking at Brittany sweetly.

“I bet you say that to every assistant producer you meet,” Brittany answers, and Santana laughs against her neck.

“Stop it,” she says, kissing Brittany’s collarbone. “I was very much married before, okay?”

“Glad you’re not anymore,” Brittany says, kissing the corner of Santana’s mouth.

“Me too,” Santana breathes, cutting to the chase and joining their lips.

* * *

 

The sun is almost gone; the shapes in the kitchen become barely noticeable.

“I could go,” Brittany says, closing her eyes when Santana bites her neck and sucks.

“You could stay,” Santana answers, breathing against Brittany’s neck, and presses her hips against Brittany’s. She runs the tip of her tongue on the same spot; Brittany whimpers, wrapping one leg around Santana.

“I could stay,” Brittany agrees, holding on to Santana’s shoulders. She feels Santana’s smile against her skin as she kisses Brittany’s jaw.

Brittany kisses her hard and strong, lips sliding together until Santana sucks on her tongue and coaxes it into her mouth, wet and shameless, as her hands grab Brittany’s thighs.

* * *

 

They skip the tour and go straight to the bedroom, stumbling on every wall. Santana’s lips don’t leave Brittany’s skin; Brittany’s hands don’t leave Santana’s shoulder as she pants and moans, letting Santana take her wherever.

Her shirt falls on the stairs.

Santana kisses Brittany’s breasts open mouthed and wet, playing within the limits of Brittany’s bra.

Brittany’s pants reach the ground as soon as they get to the bedroom.

* * *

 

Brittany covers her eyes with her hand, trying to catch her breath. Santana presses her body to Brittany’s side, in all her naked glory. Brittany wraps her free arm around Santana, making sure she’s as close as possible.

Santana kisses Brittany’s shoulder, running a hand on her collarbone. “You’re really flexible.”

“And really exhausted,” Brittany answers with a satisfied sigh. She pulls Santana for a lazy kiss, running her hands on Santana’s back, “and tingly.”

Santana smiles into the kiss, biting Brittany’s lower lip.

“We could rest,” Santana mumbles, but she’s already half on top of Brittany. Brittany kisses her again, her hands brushing Santana’s breasts before settling on her lower back to pull her closer. Santana’s thigh settles between Brittany’s and she hums when Brittany sucks her lower lip.

“Maybe later,” Brittany answers, flexing her leg so her thigh is pressing against Santana; Santana nods and begins to move her hips.

* * *

 

Brittany wakes up from her nap when Santana comes back from the bathroom and lies on the bed.

“Go back to sleep,” Santana says and kisses her temple.

Brittany rubs her eyes, resting her head on Santana’s chest. Santana plays with her hair a little. “What time is it?”

Santana reaches for her phone with her free hand and looks at the screen. “It’s a little after midnight.”

“Happy birthday to me, then,” Brittany says, pulling the covers over them.

Santana stops and looks at Brittany. “Are you serious?”

Brittany nods, holding back a yawn.

“Happy birthday,” Santana says softly, smiling a little. “I wish you’d told me sooner. What should I get you?”

“A pony?”

Santana laughs beautifully, pulling Brittany against her. “You’re a special unicorn.”

“Maybe a bicorn,” Brittany answers after some thought, her arm on Santana’s waist and her leg over Santana’s.

Santana smiles; Brittany finally yawns, her nose scrunching. “Go back to sleep, birthday girl,” Santana tells her, “we’ll figure out a way to celebrate later.”

Brittany hides her face in Santana’s neck and mumbles in agreement.

“We can watch something in my cinema room,” Santana plans, the tip of her fingers running on Brittany’s shoulder, “or just make out in the dark.”

“Wait—“ Brittany blinks a few times, raising her head to look at Santana. “You have your own movie theater?”

“I wouldn’t put it like that, but yes.” Santana looks awfully satisfied with herself. “I never gave you the tour around the house, did I?”

Brittany straightens up a bit, supporting her weight on her arm. “Can we watch Mr. & Mrs. Smith and eat popcorn and make out?”

Santana nods.

“And hang out by the pool and sip cocktails and make out?”

Santana nods again, trying to hold back a smile.

“Best birthday ever,” Brittany says, joining their lips.

Santana pulls Brittany on top of her, and they start again.


End file.
